Julvisa
by Valbonne
Summary: AU: A teenage Berwald is thrown out of his home close to Christmastime. His family has disowned him, and he is forced to wander through the harsh, wintry lands of northern Sweden in search of the place he belongs.
1. 21 December

**_21 December._**

Small clusters of ice splattered against the boy's face as he trekked toward the forest with his few belongings slung across his shoulder in a burlap sack. He didn't feel the cold anymore, but neither did he feel the warmth of the village lights left in his wake.

He felt nothing but the surrounding darkness as he trudged onward, his boots dragging and leaving long streaks in the snow on the ground.

_An outcast._

That was indeed what he was now, nothing more than a homeless teenager with no family to speak of. He had been disowned when they had found out.

Found out the truth about him.

Of all their children, why him? They had so many reasons to be proud of him, his mother had screamed.

Why bring such an embarrassment to their family, which had a high reputation in their village? No; it couldn't be allowed.

He was shameful to their family, and had been forced to leave.

His father hadn't even yelled.

He had only slammed the boy into the wall, pointed a thick, unwavering finger at the boy's room, and told him quietly to gather his belongings.

His mother had shouted and screeched and cried, all the while his siblings watched silently from the corner in which they played.

They had received a set of building blocks and some dolls made of potato sacks on this day of advent.

Berwald had received a small pocket knife, not too large but strong enough to be put to good use.

And he took it with him when he left.

_Berwald._

That was the boy's name. A quiet, serious child who was often lost in his own wandering thoughts, but just as often ensnared in the trap formed by his grounded worries.

Would he ever be allowed back to his family?

It didn't seem so, and so Berwald continued walking.

He had the orange from yesterday's advent prize, at least. And a small bag of grains, dried berries and nuts, but that was all. He would have to ration out his food, if he couldn't find a place to stay soon.

The fresh snow was all he would have to drink.

_Snow._

It continued to fall around him, on him, blanketing the wintry world in a sleepy white cloak. It alit on the frozen trees and their gangly branches as they stretched out to scrape the dark sky. Although it was afternoon, hardly any sunlight reached these ends of the earth during the deep winter. A fleeting ray of light, perhaps a blood-red semicircle peeking above the mountain peaks in the distance, and that would be the most light they would ever get.

It suited Berwald.

_South._

He thought to go in this direction. There were certainly outlying villages scattered across the southern snowdrifts. Hardly anything could be found further north, unless he planned to stay with a herd of reindeer or elk. It was all wilderness there, with no humans in sight.

But maybe that would suit him.

There was no sun to guide him, and he could scarcely distinguish between the directions in the low light and blustery weather. He had already delved partway into the forest, and if he hadn't been walking in a straight path, he would not have been able to tell from whence he'd come. Clumps of snow dropped into the footprints he'd left behind, erasing them quickly as if no one had trodden here.

_As if no one had trodden here._

He was a nobody, wasn't he?

And Berwald didn't need anyone to tell him this. He could sense it, the way his parents looked at him so severely. Anger and frustration and sadness behind his mother's eyes, and nothing but an icy coldness in his father's eyes. The sort of icy coldness that only a northerner's gaze could hold.

Berwald could hold that same sort of gaze, the one that masks all other emotions until nothing but darkness is left.

Perhaps it would serve him well.

And he continued onward, memories and thoughts galloping through his mind like wild horses. Horses that could roam freely, without ever having to return to one place.


	2. 22 December

**_22 December._**

It was midnight.

Berwald couldn't tell from the sky, but the forest had a particular feeling to it: the feeling that it was alive, and breathing, and watching his every step. He couldn't tell if he was walking in a straight line anymore; he was hungry, and had only eaten a handful of his food for fear of running out. And he was beginning to tire, but he knew that to sleep in this weather would mean a certain death.

To keep himself awake, he hummed a soft tune to himself.

To keep himself from freezing.

_Gläns över sjö och strand,  
>stjärna ur fjärran,<br>du, som i Österland,  
>tändes av Herran...<strong>*<strong>_

It was nearing Christmas, and he had no family to speak of anymore.

He kept singing as he went along, only stopping briefly to catch his breath as the winds picked up and the snowflakes struck his face like daggers.

_...stjärnan från Betlehem  
>leder ej bort, men hem!<br>Barnen och herdarne  
>följa dig gärna,<br>strålande stjärna,  
><em>_strålande stjärna..._

Forced to take a pause once more, the boy attempted to tighten the scarf around his neck in retaliation against the weather. He also took more of the food, and washed it down with a handful of snow. Regaining some energy, he pushed himself deeper into the forest, figuring he would have been at the edge already, had he headed directly southbound.

He had no idea where he was headed anymore; all he knew was that he had to get away from the place he no longer could call home.

His heavy breaths made puffs in the air, miniature clouds that were close enough to touch, and yet one could never learn what they felt like.

_This Swedish winter._

It was why he loved his land, but it was also why he hated it.

Such beauty and grace mixed with such brutal and furious haste, as the snowflakes and ice clusters rained down like frigid teardrops.

He was still walking.

Walking, and hardly aware of it. His vision was replaced by strange fantasies of the things that never happened, but his legs continued to move in a mechanical fashion as his lips mouthed silent words.

_...strålande stjärna,  
><em>_strålande stjärna..._

Awake.

_Awake._

Berwald caught himself sleepwalking, his dazed pattern of footsteps leaving a zigzag trail in the snow before it was wiped clean by the new layers of white.

He had to remind himself to stay alert, not to doze off for a single moment.

Because, in that moment, he could die.

And despite his hardships, he didn't want to die. He wanted to live to see a new morning rise, somewhere beyond the northern horizon. He wanted to see it all begin anew, to find a place to call his own.

_To find someone who would love him back._

That was his will to live.

Shouldn't he be nearing the perimeter of the woods by now?

Yes—there was a clearing!

He pressed closer and closer, his spirits rising and his steps growing quicker and more confident as he arrived at the rim.

_And there was light._

Winter surrounded him in every direction, but he could see a faint glow in the distance if he squinted hard enough.

Like a moth to a flame, he felt himself drawn to the faint signal of warmth. He gravitated toward it, already imagining a roaring hearth with a vivid flame leaping high into the chimney where the smoke would billow out in fat, grey clouds. A cozy little house, with a laughing family to spend the holidays with. A place to sit and warm his numb hands and feet, to listen to the stories he'd grown up hearing about the elves and the reindeer. To hear an unfamiliar voice telling such a familiar tale.

_The village lay silently amongst the snowy dunes._

The teen advanced, his tired, cold eyes tinged with hope.

Little rows of scattered houses, just like his own village. Small houses, painted red or yellow or brown, or even green, their roofs piled high with snow.

As he approached the nearest one, he raised a hand to the door, then hesitated.

Was it right?

Would he be disturbing them?

It was already the wee hours of the morning, and unlikely that anyone would still be up. Only the advent candles glowed in the windowsill of the house, with a seven-pointed star in all its glory strung above the lights. There was no indication that the residents would be awake.

Perhaps they would see through him to exactly who he was, and reject him.

Even worse, they might chase him out with sticks and stones.

His fears crept around until they had a full grip on him, and he backed away from the door and returned to the snow-coated street in the middle of the houses.

_The stars shone brightly._

The sky was clouded over, and not a single speck of light could be glimpsed. But the paper advent stars in each window radiated with light, lifting Berwald's spirits. He finally went over to a snow-covered bench and set down his sack, and cleared some of the snow off it. Then, he lay his head down on his sack as a makeshift pillow and curled up as tightly as he could without falling off the edge of the bench, and closed his eyes. Sleep could wait no longer.

_Cold._

His own shivering awoke him. It must have been morning, and who knew how long he'd slept. But someone had draped a blanket over Berwald throughout the course of the night, and he was beyond grateful for the act of kindness from someone he might never meet.

He stood to brush the remainder of snow from himself, and saw that it had stopped snowing sometime while he had been slumbering. The streetlamps lent a friendly orange glow to the layers on the ground, casting shadows around the smooth blanket dinted only by the footprints of a rabbit.

From not far off, he heard the sound of a door opening and closing. An overexcited dog soon darted by, galumphing through the snow and spraying it every which way. The owner crossly stalked behind the dog, calling for it to come back.

_Food._

Reminding himself he needed something to eat, he picked up the blanket and folded it carefully into his sack before resuming his walk through the village.

He saw a small store where he could buy food, and entered hastily to warm himself up.

There was only a single cashier, and a queue of perhaps three people, not more. All stood in line with tea and wine and cookies. Berwald made his way carefully to the back of the small store where he thought nobody would be watching him, and stood amongst the shelves simply trying to wiggle his fingers and toes to make sure they were all still there.

Thankfully, they were.

_Warmth._

He simply stood there, regaining the heat he'd lost from being outside. In fact, he felt a bit stupid. Deciding that he should make it look as if he were buying something, he wandered around quietly, idly browsing as he went around slowly. Occasionally, he even paused to read some of the labels.

After seeing Berwald circle through the store twice, the clerk called out to him, asking if he could help the boy with anything.

Berwald stopped in his tracks.

He took off a mitten to reach into his pocket, hoping he would have enough to buy something.

_Fifty öre._******

Not enough to afford more than a piece of candy, he figured. Not enough to buy food.

But the clerk saw it in his eyes, and held out a few slices of fresh bread and indicated toward Berwald's pitiful sum as he shook his head.

_Bread._

Longing and hunger shone in the boy's eyes.

Was it right?

But the kind clerk continued to hold out the bread, and nodded his head as if to answer the silent question. And Berwald reached out to take the bread gratefully.

_God jul, _he heard the clerk bid him, and then the man disappeared into the recesses of the back storeroom. _Merry Christmas._

Berwald deposited his handful of coins on the counter with a solemn _clink_ and left.

The rest of the day was spent conserving his precious food, although Berwald ravenously devoured one of the slices immediately upon setting foot outside again. He lingered for a while around the small village as the people went about their activities; and all the while he secretly hoped someone would invite him inside. He was too ashamed to ask.

He wandered over to an isolated area behind the houses to relieve himself, pondering and musing and worrying as he tugged down his trousers.

But he convinced himself to quit fretting—all would solve itself if he only continued. He would let his heart guide him to a place he belonged, he decided, and with this in mind, he pulled up his trousers and resumed walking—this time, away from the quaint little village he might have otherwise called home.

Small children kicked a ball of twine around in a snowy clearing, shrieking and laughing as if it were the best form of entertainment the world had to offer. The teen stopped to watch them, a faint smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. One of the children accidentally kicked the ball toward Berwald, who caught it with his foot and held it in place as they stared wide-eyed at this newcomer, this older boy who didn't belong in this village.

But he flashed them a shy smile and kicked it lightly back into the field, where they giggled and jumped and resumed their little game.

_Innocence._

They didn't know any better. They didn't know who he was.

Perhaps even he didn't know who he was.

And then he left, trailing his footprints in the snow as a soft tune escaped from between his lips.

_Strålande stjärna,  
><em>_strålande stjärna…_

And the darkness seemed to grow a little warmer.

* * *

><p><strong>*Note: <strong>The song Berwald is singing/humming is called _Gläns över sjö och strand_ ("Shine over sea and shore"), an old Swedish poem by Viktor Rydberg first published in 1891. It was set to music by Alice Tegnér in 1893 and retitled _Betlehems stjärna_ ("Bethlehem's star"). Note that the Swedish word _sjö_ actually means "lake"; however, when used in a poetic sense, it can mean "sea". (Source: Wikipedia and my own knowledge)

********Note: **0,50 SEK, or 50 _öre_, is worth half a Swedish crown (_krona_) and no longer in use. When paying at a store, prices are often listed in both _kronor_ and _öre_, but are rounded up or down to the full _krona_, depending on whether it's over or under 50 _öre_. For the price of 50 _öre_ nowadays, you can send a text message. Nothing else is charged in _öre_ other than phone bills, electricity bills, etc. (Source: my own knowledge)


	3. 23 December

**_23 December_**

His steps grew heavier. The snow grew deeper. His breathing grew more labored.

Berwald had walked straight through the night, stopping here and there to catch his wind now and again, but hadn't paused to sleep.

He couldn't pause to sleep.

He had to find shelter.

_Warmth._

By now, it was well into the foggy daytime, and he didn't have a sense of how far he was from his own tiny village.

His former home, which nestled in the crook of a frosty forest in the outer edges of Norrbotten.

To him, it was now just as ice-cold and remote as the woods which surrounded it.

_Unknown._

The boy urged himself to continue onward into the unknown lands. He had walked a good distance even from the village he'd found the day before; this much he knew, and he wondered how much farther he would be able to go.

Food was running low once again.

The bread he had carefully nibbled from time to time, only on breaks and never more than a little at a time. But it, and even the mix of nuts and dried berries he'd brought had run out during the course of the day. He only had the orange left, which was more than slightly frozen. Its juice would give him energy, but he wanted to save it as a last resort.

_Time was running out._

There appeared to be no houses, no fires, no signs of civilization for at least a mile***** around. How much longer would Berwald be able to travel, before succumbing to the frigid grip of winter?

He didn't want to think about it, and buried his face a little deeper into his scarf.

He didn't want to die in a place he would never be found.

_Trees._

The land was far from barren. In the dim, ethereal glow of the mists, Berwald could glimpse a darker mass and the foremost sketchy outlines of dubious trees.

Maybe it was warmer between the evergreens, he thought. Then again, it could have been a delirious idea from his head as he slowly froze. But his footfalls grew a bit more certain, and he marched with a strange determination toward the tall vegetation, the looming branches arcing overhead and seeming to wrap around the boy to swallow him into their leafy depths.

_Comfort._

It was indeed a peculiar sensation, this feeling of security, but perhaps it could have been attributed to the shelter the trees provided.

Slowing his steps a bit so his numb feet dragged slightly across the snow, the teenager stopped to lean against the reassuring bark of a sturdy tree. The bears had long gone to hibernate, so there were hardly any dangers to worry about. He couldn't see much, and so he closed his eyes in a brief respite to shut out the remainder of the scenery. Just for a few seconds, and he could then resume his journey.

_Just for a few seconds._

And then he would hasten on.

Hasten on toward a new home.

**_PANG._**

The loud crack shot through the woods, resounding as it died out into the fog.

Berwald jerked himself awake. He had slept too long, hadn't he? He was far from the nearest town, but where had that sound come from?

**_PANG._**

Nearer now, and he could feel his eardrums buzzing with the impact of the sharp sound waves. There was no mistaking it, however. It was a-

**_PANG. PANG. PANG._**

His head erupted into a splitting pain, his ears stung beyond what he could tolerate, and he felt sick. He fell to his knees, weakly dropping his sack into the snow before coughing into the ground. He felt the ground tremble around him as a feeling of thunder swam past him.

_He vomited._

His stomach, empty with the lack of food, refused to cooperate, and he struggled for air amidst the gagging. Strings of saliva dripped from his lips, and nothing more. His vision swam with all the colors that weren't in the landscape and his ears played a cacophony of tricks in his head. It was too loud to think. No—it was too quiet to think. He couldn't hear anything but his own pulse, drumming and pounding and beating through his veins. It hurt to hear it, while the rest of him was still so numb with cold.

At least it was proof he was still alive.

_Silence._

He rocked himself slowly back and forth, clutching his stomach and squeezing his eyes shut against the roaring headache as it began to fade into a regular throb.

At least now, it didn't feel as if he were being stabbed in the temples.

He knew he still couldn't properly hear anything, but the noise traffic generated by his eardrums had now dissolved into the cottony aftermath of hearing damage.

It was mostly silent.

_It was close._

Whoever had fired the shots was nearby. Reindeer or elk hunters, no doubt, and so the large animals were also lurking nearby. One of them must have passed by him in his fit of nausea.

The hunter was likely an amateur, one who couldn't kill in a clean shot.

And suddenly, he arrived at a lucid realization: he had to watch his step.

He didn't care to be mistaken for a reindeer, and suffer the fate doomed to the animal.

_Hunted._

His legs were still unstable, and he wobbled as he sought to regain his balance, but he managed to stand and pick up his sack once more.

Tottering carefully forward in the fluffy snow, he stayed along the line of trees where he figured he wouldn't be shot. Every venture forth was a creeping step, uncertain and unbalanced.

And after another couple of steps, Berwald collapsed into the snow.

_Cold._

He felt something sticky against his face as he lay there, freezing quickly into an icy gunk.

His eyes strained in the blackness to squint at his surroundings, and he finally noticed darker splotches that tainted the pure snow. Footprints that were likely his, and hoof prints of the large animal that had thundered by.

_And blood._

Blood in the snow, and he couldn't tell whose it was.

His, or the animal's, and he didn't even care.

The snow was comfortable, and cold, and it made him sleepy.

He could just settle here, surrounded by something that felt akin to what a cloud must feel like. Deep snow, fluffy snow, snow that couldn't bear his weight above the surface.

He gradually sank farther down.

And he felt the lure of the winter coax him into sleep just as the faintest sound of boots crunched through the snow.

* * *

><p>"Pappa, did I kill it?"<p>

"I believe you did, but you must learn to use fewer bullets. It also seems you shot through an artery: look at the blood on the ground. It won't make for very good meat."

"How do I avoid the arteries?"

"You'll learn with time. The biggest arteries-"

"Pappa?"

"-are in the neck and legs. If you shoot at them, it will kill the-"

"Pappa?"

"-animal, but at the cost of blood. It's a messy kill, and the fur is also harder to sell. But if-"

"_Pappa._"

The strong, bearded man glanced down with irritation at his son. "Why do you ask questions if you don't listen to the answer?" he sighed, his lantern swinging and throwing light around the shallow grooves in the snow where the blood had spilled.

But the boy simply pointed toward the base of a tree as the beams of light stretched over, and he lowered his voice. "…Is that a _person_?"

And the man's eyes widened at the indentation in the snow as he quickened his pace.

* * *

><p><strong>*Note:<strong> A Swedish mile (_en mil_) is the equivalent of 10 km.


End file.
